Falling for Archie (sweet gay romance)

by Hollis Shiloh

  "Did you ride all the way?" Impatiently, Harris reached forward and helped twitch the scarf free.

  Archie shook his head. "I stalled on the road. Walked the rest of the way."

  Harris reached for the teakettle. "Here. The water's still hot. Have some cocoa. It's only instant, I'm afraid." His voice trailed off as he tried to steady his breathing. He concentrated hard on balancing his crutches, opening the cocoa packet, pouring the water, and stirring. Only then did he realize he'd used his own mug. He turned blindly to Archie. "I'm sorry, I drank out of this mug already."

  "Harr, it's fine," said Archie in a gruff, cracking voice. He reached out, accepted the mug with stiff, gloved hands. "It smells wonderful."

  "You should have stayed home."

  He shook his head wearily. "No, I had to visit my mother. I'd have stayed there if I knew it would be this bad." He grinned weakly, a shadow of his usual blinding smile. "I'll have to fetch my motorcycle after the snow melts. It's well stuck. I hope the old girl isn't hurt."

  Harris stayed silent. That hadn't been what he'd meant. He'd meant, 'Why didn't you stay home with your mother?' But it gave him a surprisingly warm feeling inside, to hear Archie misunderstand him and think of this ramshackle, drafty old place as home.

  Archie coughed and sipped—okay, slurped—his cocoa. "That's good stuff. Mind if I… sit down?" He still sounded short of breath.

  "Oh, yes. I'm sorry. The fire's burning in the other room, if you think you can make it." He gestured.

  Archie laughed weakly. "If I can make it home, I should think I can make it to the fire!" He limped in, shedding bits of snow and ice from his clothing and his hair as he went.

  Harris trailed after him anxiously, and yet feeling a glad warmth and contentment inside that had been missing all day. "Get those frozen things off. There's a quilt on the back of the sofa. Wrap yourself in it and sit by the fire," he instructed.

  Archie nodded. His eyelids flickered, and he yawned while struggling with a zipper. Harris watched him a moment, and then moved forward, nudging benumbed fingers out of the way, and grasping the zipper himself. Nothing like his dreams, really: undressing Archie from his leather motorcycle outfit. And yet still wonderful. Fortunately, the half-light hid his blush as he worked the zipper down.

  Archie put hands on Harris's shoulders, steadying himself. Then he worked his way out of the now-unzipped clothes, still shivering, his bare skin gleaming in the low, orange light of the fire. "There is nothing better—nothing—than a fire on Christmas," he said. With a heavy sigh, he wrapped the quilt around his small frame, flopped into the chair by the fire, still trembling, and closed his eyes.

  Harris eased down onto the couch, not taking his eyes off Archie. The man was a walking disaster area, shouldn't be let out on his own. He never should've attempted the ride back in this weather.

  But… he was home now. For Christmas.

  ~

  They slept by the fire that night, waking periodically to feed it. Morning brought a world of ice, but no electricity. Harris was still happier than he could remember being in some time, snowed in with Archie.

  They cooked on the fire, melted snow to flush the toilet, and boiled snow for tea. Archie trudged snow all over the kitchen, bringing in armload after armload of wood. They didn't do any chores other than the absolutely necessary—except polish the lamps till they gleamed.

  The birds didn't know anything was different; they demanded just as much seed as usual. Fortunately, Harris had a large supply on hand. They refilled the feeder twice each day, and sat and watched the birds eat and squabble. He didn't try to feed the chickadees by hand; it was too cold to leave the window open.

  By the time the roads were clear, the men were eating canned beans and nearly down to their last bit of wood. Harris had written two manuals all without the aid of electricity, and Archie's latest bruises and bangs had actually healed up all the way.

  Till he went out for his bike, and came back limping, and then went out for groceries and returned with a puffy, bruised eye.

  "There was a disagreement over the hotdogs," he said, holding them up casually, looking inordinately proud of himself, with his chest puffed out and his grin wide and lazy. "You should see the other guy."

  "I hope you didn't get into a fight in the grocery store." Harris stared at him. "We certainly could have done without."

  "They're your favorite kind, so no, we couldn't. Besides, that guy already had some." He moved to the fridge, walking cockily, whistling off-key.

  Harris stared after him, shaking his head. Sometimes he wondered who this feisty little man was. He could be such a complete mystery—one minute polite and eager to please, the next proud of himself for fighting over hotdogs.

  I'll never figure him out.

  But they had hotdogs all the same, and they were delicious.

  ~

  With the return of electricity, they sat in the living room and watched It's A Wonderful Life on VHS. Traditionally, Harris watched it every Christmas, but he'd missed it this time because of the power outage. It seemed worth it to break tradition rather than skip the movie altogether.

  He glanced over at Archie to see whether he was enjoying it so far, and then blinked. Arch sat on the faded armchair, his knees drawn towards his chest. He was biting his lip and clutched a small pillow.

  Harris looked away quickly. But shortly he stole another glance and saw Archie swiping at his eyes.

  Archie blew his nose loudly. "Sorry," he mumbled.

  "Don't be," said Harris softly. He kept his eyes on the screen so as not to embarrass Arch further. "It's that sort of movie." And you are wonderful. Harris felt melted and warm inside, and just wanted to draw Archie into his arms, cradle him close, and comfort him till his hiccups quieted.

  My tough little man, sweet inside as a chocolate center….

  ~

  "Which aisle next?" asked Archie. He pushed the grocery store's wheelchair with shopping basket attached through the store so Harris could do the shopping this week. Archie tried, but shopping wasn't his best skill. He was, if possible, worse at it than at cooking. He was just as likely to come home with a vast quantity of ramen noodles as real meals.

  "The meat section, please," said Harris, sitting up grandly, feeling like a king in this chair. It was less painful than trying to manage the store on crutches. And he'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit he enjoyed having Archie's help.

  "Meat section it is." Archie steered the wheelchair, making putt-putt noises under his breath, like a little boat's engine.

  "That pork display?" suggested Harris as they drew nearer.

  "Aye aye, cap'n," said Archie in a silly voice. "Away anchor!" He pulled the chair to a halt.

  "Thank you." Harris's mouth twitched. "Could you pick out two packages of chops, please?"

  "Two? We can't eat that many."

  "Well, we can freeze the extra. That's a pretty good deal. See the sale price?"

  "Yes, yes, I see the sale price," he grumbled, bending over the humming refrigerator case.

  Harris admired the slender grace of him. He didn't need to bend very far; the display was high and Archie short. Harris thought he might be developing a fetish for short men in well-fitted jeans.

  "Can't cook pork," muttered Archie, as he straightened up, holding two packages of chops. "You can catch worms from pork if you don't know how to cook it, and I don't."

  "Don't worry. I'll cook them, and you can fetch and carry for me, all right? No worms need be involved."

  Archie brightened. "Oh! Well in that case, get four packs!"

  Harris tried not to laugh, but he couldn't stop himself.

  When they got home, he cooked pork, sauerkraut, and mashed potatoes. It was difficult to manage cooking and his crutches, but manageable with Archie's help. Arch was quick to move in, taking away things that were in Harris's way, hurrying to fetch the spices, peel the potatoes, or bring him a spatula, whatever Harris wanted. Sometimes, when he leaned nearer, rea
ching to help, Harris thought he had never felt more content.

  Archie looked so handsome, bent over a bowl, peeling potatoes, reaching up every once in a while to flick a piece of his hair out of his way. He spotted Harris watching him and gave him a bright, sweet smile. "Almost done!" he promised, holding up a potato proudly. It was more white than brown now. And there was only one small, bloody mark on one of Archie's knuckles.

  "You should wash and bandage that," said Harris, nodding to it.

  "Huh?" Archie glanced down at his hand. "Oh, yeah." He clambered to his feet and dashed away. "Be right back! Ow." He paused to rub his shin. "That table…"

  "It's your nemesis, isn't it? Slow down, Arch. There's no fire!"

  "I know, I know! It's all my fault," grumbled Archie from the bathroom, over the sound of running water.

  "I never said that."

  Archie returned a moment later, swaggering a bit. He held out his hand, and the Snoopy bandage on it. "Suit you?"

  "Unless you want a kiss to make it better." He couldn't believe he'd said that aloud.

  But Archie's reaction was worth it; he blushed, ducking his head, and turned away. "Idiot."

  Harris grinned, pressing down extra hard on a sizzling pork chop. "Oh yes, I am indeed. Very much so."

  ~

  Much as his leg itched, he'd dreaded the removal of his cast. But to the doctor he went, and off the cast came, leaving his leg paler than ever, shocking against the long-grown dark hairs. And he could walk and that was strange too, so strange he must have looked odd, off-balance, like a man learning something new.

  Archie took his arm on the way out. "All right?" he asked, smiling up at Harris, looking proud and quietly happy.

  With Archie warm and friendly by his side, and finally free of those blasted crutches, what else could Harris say? "All right," he replied.

  They headed carefully to the car. Archie kept shooting little glances over at him. He got the door for Harris, waited to see if he needed help climbing in. He didn't.

  Harris kept leaning down to itch his leg as Archie drove him home. "I can't wait to shower."

  "And get your healthy tan back?" suggested Archie, with an impish smirk.

  He smiled ruefully. "No, I've never been one for tanning. But at least I can make the tea now." Archie sobered and Harris kicked himself. "What I meant was...for both of us."

  "What, now you have to wait on me? Damn."

  "Archie."

  "Yes, Harris?" He drove carefully, keeping his eyes on the road.

  "I don't want you to go."

  "You don't want me to go?" Archie's voice rose slightly in surprise. He glanced at Harris, looking shocked.

  "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. But I've enjoyed having you here. I wanted you to know that."

  "I…I do know. Thank you, Harris."

  Harris squeezed his hands between his knees. His leg itched.

  "Of course I can't really stay," said Archie quietly.

  "No, of course not. I'm sorry."

  "Me too. But I can't work for you forever. I'd be glad to visit sometime, if you'd let me."

  "Of course. That would be nice. I'd be very glad to see you, anytime." He sounded polite, but inside he'd gone numb. Yet he still ached, exquisitely unhappy. Archie would give him a pity visit sometime, and he would look forward to it. Damn, I'm pathetic.

  He'd let himself get attached to a man with absolutely no interest in return. And really, how could he have any? Archie Freestone was young and handsome and fit, and probably straight, and this had just been a job to him, just an in-between job till he got his life straightened out.

  And you know what? I'm grateful. I am. I had him in my life for a while, and I'll never forget.

  He squeezed his hands on his knees, hard, and then reached down to scratch his leg again. Sadness tried to settle; he told himself not to let it. Told himself to enjoy this drive, however short it was: perhaps his last with Archie.

  Soon, Archie parked the car and turned to him. "Do you need help walking in?"

  "No thank you."

  "Right. I'll make the tea, so you can take your shower."

  "Thank you."

  "Harris...?" Archie paused, partway out of the car. He bent down to peer back into the car. His brown eyes looked large, sad, and wistful. "I'm... sorry if that came out wrong. I've enjoyed being here with you, too."

  "Thank you, Freestone." Harris got out and closed the door behind him with finality.

  Archie caught up to him at the door. "Archie. You can still call me Archie. I mean, if you want. You don't have to go all formal now because I don't work for you—or won't, soon. In fact I thought—" He broke off and shook his head. Then he clapped a hand on Lark's shoulder. "Never mind. Have your shower. I'll get on that tea."

  He slipped ahead, unlocked the door for Harris, and flung it open, leaving his arm outstretched grandly. He stood as tall as he could, giving Harris that sweet smile that twisted his stomach and made him feel as if he was the only man in the world.

  He was a self-deluded idiot.

  ~

  He'd picked his clothing carefully before he left: underpants, a favorite pair of jeans, his bright green sweater, and comfortable old shoes and tan socks.

  Soon he stood in the shower with his eyes closed, hoping the water would wash away his looming sorrow. No more Archie, soon. Though he might visit...

  He wondered if they should go out to eat tonight, or if he dare suggest he cook a meal for the both of them, to celebrate. He so wanted to cook for Archie, to make him a nice meal and treat him to wine and chat with him, and make him laugh so hard he almost doubled over with mirth.

  Archie's face showed such delight when he laughed. Harris could think of few things that made him happier than being the cause of it, with a sly joke or bit of deadpan humor that hit home. Actually, at the moment, he could think of none.

  He squeezed his eyes shut harder. Nearby, in the kitchen, something banged, and then came a loud oath from Archie, and something that sounded like "Ow ow ow!"

  Harris turned off the taps and stepped out. Water sheeted from him. He wrapped himself in a towel and left the bathroom. "Arch?" he called. "Are you all right?"

  Archie stood at the sink, holding his hand under cold water. He glanced at Harris, his eyes growing larger at the sight of him.

  "Oh, sorry," said Harris, taking an awkward step backwards, acutely aware of his bare chest, arms, and legs, and how ugly they must look, hairy and middle aged and slightly plump.

  "No, no," said Archie quickly, taking his finger from his mouth with a 'pop.' "I just burned my hand. Sorry to interrupt you!" He turned back to the sink, grimacing, as he held his hand under the water.

  Harris retreated with heightened color to finish drying off and put on some clothes. His body disgusted him today. Why couldn't he be bronzed, chiseled, and handsome, so Archie wouldn't be shocked by his appearance, by his feelings? If they ever came out….

  He took his time drying, his face tight, hard, and unhappy. Finally he stepped into the comfortable, well-worn jeans that he hadn't been able to wear since he got the cast, and pulled on his sweater. He slicked his hair back. It felt nice to dress normally again, not in baggy or cut off trousers. It almost chased away his sour, sad feelings about Archie leaving. Almost.

  "Harris," called Archie at the door to the bathroom. "Could you bring out a bandage?"

  "For your burn?" asked Harris, blinking.

  "No, I've cut myself." He sounded embarrassed.

  "You have? How? You just finished burning yourself."

  "I know, I know, I'm sorry. Could you just bring the bandage? When you come out. I mean, when you're done."

  Harris smirked. "Of course, Arch."

  "Oh, thanks," said Archie, sounding witless and breathless.

  How badly did he cut himself. Also, how?

  Harris didn't bother with socks and shoes, but left the room still barefoot, bringing the first aid kit. "Let me see?"

  Archie s
tood in the middle of the kitchen, looking lost. He held up a red-slicked hand, gripped tightly in his other.

  Harris made a sound in his throat and reached for it. "Did you wash?"

  "No. I'm trying to get the bleeding to stop first." Archie sounded rather faint.

  "Right." Harris looked around blindly. He grabbed a clean kitchen towel and began to wrap Archie's hand tightly. Their hands bumped each other in the fumbled hurry. "Hold this up high and squeeze, best you can. Do you need to go to the hospital?"

  "No, no, no. I'm fine."

  Harris steered him towards a kitchen chair and guided him to sit. Archie looked pale.

  "How did it happen? How do you possibly cut yourself making tea?"

  He nodded to the table. Harris glanced over and saw the partly open packet of cookies sitting there, a sharp knife next to it.

  "I always have trouble getting that stupid packaging open, so I thought, why not a knife?" Archie laughed a little breathlessly.

  "Not your smartest decision," said Harris. He brushed the hair back from Archie's forehead, holding his hand against the soft, warm skin a moment. His other hand gripped Archie's shoulder.

  Archie leaned against him like one surrendering tension now that he knew he was safe.

  Harris closed his eyes, carding fingers tenderly through Archie's hair, wishing he could make this moment last forever.

  He held Archie for a long moment, before he even realized he was doing so. Then Archie shifted a bit, and grunted, and leaned more towards the table so he could rest his elbow there, to make it easier to hold his hand up. The towel was getting red, it would probably never wash out, but that didn't matter right now.

  Harris stepped back, cleared his throat, and went to the stove. He brought over the tea Archie had made, carrying it carefully, and left the two mugs sitting there, steam rising. He was too upset to drink his own; he went to the refrigerator and began to cook a meal: his favorite, chicken pie.